Oblivion: A Collection
by nanonox
Summary: A collection of random one-shots related to the story Oblivion. Multiple genres and characters. Expect angst, silliness, fluff, and other nonsense.
1. Christmas

A/N: Following the completion of my story _Oblivion_, I found I still had many ideas surrounding the characters, post-war as well as "deleted scenes" of sorts that didn't make it into the final story. I don't have plans for a full sequel, but still wanted to write and share them. They are presented here as a random collection of odds and ends, each individual stories so you can read one or read them all. No genres are off-limits here. I will try to include dates or other indications of time-frames for cohesiveness.

If you haven't read _Oblivion_, I highly recommend doing so before continuing. If you have, welcome back, and thank you for reading!

* * *

_December 1988_

[_Post-Oblivion_]

* * *

Jingling.

It was a light and familiar sound, fluttering on the quiver of chilly winter wind. Metallic and melodic, it danced through the open window on a string of whistling gales, stirring the fine paper shōji into a percussion beneath it.

The sound drew Anubis's attention away from the steam coiling out of the kettle, bringing him to glance over his shoulder in its direction. He paused a moment before turning out of the kitchen and skimming the dining area. Empty.

Jingling.

Walking toward the windows, the metallic song grew louder. As he reached the door, he took a resolving breath, then reached forward to draw it open.

The graveyard stretched out before him, blanketed in powdery white. Snow was an unforgiving medium, immediately betraying any unexpected guests, and yet as he peered into the wintry landscape, he found only a small trail of tiny footprints; their only visitor had been a little rabbit scurrying back into the underbrush.

Jingling.

Leaning out of the doorway, Anubis's blue-green eyes shifted across the porch in search of the sound, and finally its origin was revealed: clusters of small golden bells, secured to the porch columns by shiny red ribbon. He gazed at them for a moment before a small laugh perked on his lips and he rolled his eyes at himself. _Of course_.

The bells were one small part of a grander design of sparkling décor Iris had been dressing the house in, preparing for something she called "Christmas." Holidays were not entirely foreign to Anubis, to be sure, but this was one with which he was unfamiliar, and he found its associated trimmings outrageously odd. Their home was bedecked in warm shades of crimson and gold with dashes of emerald green, and a tree placed in the living room was hung with glass baubles and small lights tucked in its branches. It was a vibrant display he did not quite understand, but he also could not deny that watching his wife cheerfully tie ribbons and bells and glittering what-nots around the house was incredibly endearing.

This merriment was not limited to the Koma household; a trip to the market revealed the town was decked out much the same, and there was an overall sense of joy in everyone he encountered. In the midst of this liveliness it was hard to believe that the mortal world had provided enough greed and hatred to feed the Dynasty.

As he turned away from the door, Anubis heard a new sound beneath the soft ringing of the bells: laughter. He turned back to look out into the cemetery again. Iris emerged from the skeletal trees, wrapped warmly in a heavy grey wool cloak, long waves of brown hair pouring out from beneath its hood. Another figure accompanied her, dressed in a black kimono with several additional layers of dark grey and silver hair catching the winter sunlight as they stepped out from beneath the trees. Dais offered his hand to the caretaker to support her as she stepped over the more perilous, root-covered walkway of the cemetery.

Anubis crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway to watch them. Catching glimpse of the smile cracked on his wife's face, he smiled to himself. After all this time, he found he was still in awe of her. She was a luminous presence, even in the bleakness of the dead of winter when all life around her had shriveled away.

Approaching the house, the twosome looked up to find him standing in the doorway.

"It's a little cold out here to have the door wide open, isn't it?" Iris asked, stepping up the veranda stairs and rustling the bottom of her dress to kick loose the bits of snow clinging to its hem.

"I made tea," Anubis offered. She smiled a bit and reached out to hug her arms around his sides, greeting him now with a soft kiss.

As the caretaker continued inside, Anubis caught Dais's furrowed brow. A moment later, he had turned his head as if listening over his shoulder.

"Merely bells." When the man turned back to him, Anubis nodded. "I thought the same thing." Dais chuckled dryly.

"We still have not accepted this new life, have we?" It was more admission than question, and Anubis could only nod in agreement.

"Close the door." Iris's voice was slow and deliberate, rousing Dais to move inside and allow Anubis to slide the door shut behind him.

The man allowed his eye to roam and examine the unusual embellishments of the house now. He seemed to take particular interest in the tree, strolling to it to inspect the thick ivory silk ribbons cascading down its branches. Leaning closer to admire the ornaments tucked within, all ivory, gold, and crimson, he found each was different; from hand-carved shapes to etching and hand-painted images, every trinket was unique and charming in its own way.

"Do you like it?"

Dais straightened up and looked to the kitchen to find Iris standing in the doorway, teacup gently cradled in both hands.

"I do not know what it is supposed to look like," he replied, "but I suppose it is attractive, for a dead tree." She laughed.

"There isn't anything it's _supposed_ to look like, it's a Christmas tree," Iris giggled. She sipped lightly at her cup and observed as he turned his interest to the tree again. "We could put one up for you, you know." Seeing the skeptical look she received in response, she grinned. "Oh! Before I forget."

The caretaker scurried off down the hall into the bedroom, returning moments later with something in hand. As she walked to join him, he found the object resembled a boot, crafted from crimson silk with a fine pattern embroidered throughout it.

"You need to hang your stocking." Receiving a bewildered expression in response, she nodded just past him. "Over there, with the others."

Dais turned to face the direction in which she had nodded, finding the tokonoma had not been spared from the lively décor. There were two other such stockings already hung on the alcove's wall, both of crimson silk the same as his but different in design; one had been embellished with colorful gems among its embroidered crimson pattern and an ivory silk bow, while the other had more distinct embroidery mimicking lilac blooms in gold thread.

Anubis watched with a slight smirk as his comrade meandered toward the alcove. He was surprisingly receptive to this, and in fact seemed far less confused by it than Anubis himself had been when she requested it of him. Dutifully, he stepped into the tokonama and, finding a free hook beside the others, hung the stocking.

"And this will appease the ghosts?" Dais remarked matter-of-factly as he stepped back out of the alcove.

"Sorry, what?" Iris's pokerface managed to avoid betraying the confusion behind her words.

"The ghosts."

"What on _earth_ are you talking about?"

"That is the purpose of these preparations, isn't it? To satiate the ghosts."

The caretaker's face now clearly exposed her puzzlement. "I never thought I would say this, but this is a ghostly tradition I am not aware of. You're going to have to enlighten me."

"There is the chained one, the candle flame, the giant, the hooded phantom—"

"Oh my god, you're talking about _A Christmas Carol_." She stopped just short of planting her face in her palm.

"Aren't 'carols' songs?" Anubis joined at his comrade's side, both faces reflecting sheer bafflement now.

"No—_yes_, they are," Iris corrected herself, "but _A Christmas Carol_ is a book. The protagonist is visited by four ghosts, that of his old business partner, and the spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Christmas Yet-to-Come." She shook her head a bit. "Dais, that's just a story. It's fiction."

"I thought all such traditions were seated in fiction?" Dais countered. His tone was sincere and genuinely confused, and as her eyes settled on the man's earnest expression, she found herself unable to be as frustrated as she wanted to be. She let out a small sigh.

"We are _not_ going to be visited by any ghosts, okay?"

* * *

Golden light crawled through the open window, escorted by chilly, crisp air. It had been threatening to permeate the room for hours since sunrise, and had finally reached over the sill to wake the man from slumber. Begrudgingly, Dais peeled his eye open.

The usual sounds of morning birds were absent, silenced by the winter snowfall. Instead there was another melody, soft and cheerful and trilling through the house itself. The former Warlord stretched and cracked his neck as he sat up. He lingered for only a brief moment longer before slinking out from beneath the blankets.

Sliding the bedroom door open, he was greeted by a symphony of sensations: the smell of roasting meat, a waft of comforting, warm air, and that bright melody he now recognized as singing. Iris emerged from the kitchen, revealing herself as the source of the song as she carried a tray with a tea kettle and cups to the table. She had forgone her usual casual attire for a long-sleeved gown of emerald velvet, and long, large curls poured down her back. Noticing Dais, she straightened up and turned, and he found her face illuminated with light, peachy blush.

"I see you decided to rejoin the living," the caretaker teased. She motioned him to the table before passing by him in a path headed for her bedroom.

The man smirked a bit to himself and strolled quietly toward the table. Anubis had already found his seat, though he looked no more enthused to be awake than Dais felt.

"Far too early," Dais remarked.

"For both of us," Anubis agreed.

"Oh, stop it." Iris returned from the depths of the hall with two parcels in hand. "It isn't even that early." Before taking her seat, she offered one of the packages to Dais, the other to her husband. "Merry Christmas."

Turning the small parcel over in his hand, Dais noted it had been carefully wrapped in a fine, glossy paper, ivory with gold patterns throughout. This was a tradition he understood, it had been well-documented in the various books he had read, though now in practice it took him by surprise. He glanced up to find Anubis was equally tentative, and finally his eye settled on Iris's ever-patient expression.

"You going to open them, or just look at them?" she mused, reaching out to take the kettle into her hands and filling their tea cups.

_Pop_. It was a unique sound, the sound as a piece of tape broke away from the paper it secured. Anubis was the first to begin peeling the wrapping away, careful to follow along its folded lines. His wife struggled not to giggle at his caution, quickly sipping at her tea to maintain her composure.

A sleek black case lay beneath the elegant paper, held closed by gleaming silver clasps. The man's brows furrowed briefly in puzzlement. He turned it on to its side to pop the clasps and draw it open. His puzzled expression dissolved into something softer, knowing, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"I thought you could finally learn to play it," Iris remarked as he removed an elegantly carved wooden flute from the case.

_Shrrrrrrrrrk_! The sound drew both Anubis and Iris's attention back across the table to their companion. Dais's steely eye moved up, almost embarrassed as he sat with shreds of wrapping paper in each hand, his attempt to open his gift not nearly as graceful as the wrap tore down its length. A silent beat passed, and finally Iris laughed.

"You're allowed to tear the paper," she assured him, nodding.

After a moment of consideration, he pulled at the tear to complete its path downward. Tugging the remnants of the gift wrap away, nimble ivory fingers coiled around the contents: a leather-bound book. It was clearly old, its leather aged and pages more cream than white. Opening the cover, he found English text on the first page: _Frankenstein; Or, the Modern Prometheus_.

"Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_," Iris chimed in, noticing his eye scanning the title page. "She originally published it anonymously, so the first edition doesn't have her name." Watching him thumb to the next page, she continued, "arguably the first true science fiction literature ever written." A sweet smile crossed her face. "It's my favorite book."

The statement brought Dais pause. His time in the mortal world was still largely spent relearning human emotions, classifying sensations he had not felt for what he knew to be centuries. This was one he could not identify. There was warmth, and a small flutter in his stomach, and his heart seemed to swell against his ribs. The slightest smile came across his face to meet hers.

"Thank you."


	2. Nightmares

A/N: Sorry for the long delay in posting. This took a while to get out of my brain.

* * *

_May 1989_

_[Post-Oblivion]_

* * *

The ground shivered and rolled beneath his feet. His lungs ached, burning as each breath tore through them like fire. The shrieks and raucous shouting surrounding him lulled into a muted humming in his ears, and over it, the piercing beat of his heart.

He peered below him as the landscape warped and twisted. A vast, empty void stretched endlessly ahead. His breath hung in his chest, his eyes desperately searching the blackness for… what? He was no longer sure.

There was a tugging, faint at first, but swiftly it consumed him, pulling viciously at his body and drawing him into the darkness. He struggled against the sensation, finding nothing to grasp or fight. A ghastly cold swept over him, and his fingertips began to tingle before the chill crept into them. The tingling crawled up his arms like a swarm of fire ants, followed by a wave of ice.

Black fireworks exploded across his vision. The terrifying chill lingered only briefly, overtaken by something insidious; a hot, searing pain, as if the flesh of his fingers was being flayed from his bones. He struggled to cry out, willing his voice to plead for mercy, but no sound came.

He felt the tissues of his chest tearing away, slowly peeling and curling back, and as his ribs opened to the darkness, a horrible, gurgling scream he could only assume was his own exploded from them.

Rowen bolted upright, his eyes jerking open to the dimness of his room. It was not the suffocating darkness of moments prior, empty and endless; small slivers of moonlight glowed through the window blinds, softly illuminating the wall with silver light. The horrific screaming somehow still lingered, and it was not until he heard a brief, repetitive break in its echo that he realized it was not screaming at all. The phone on the nightstand trilled mercilessly.

Trembling fingers reached for the handset, curling firmly around it to pluck it from the base and silencing the screeching ring. He pressed the earpiece to his face to find it cool against his skin.

"Hello?" As the word burst past his lips, he almost gasped, realizing in that moment how desperately he was struggling for breath. He leaned forward to place his forehead in his free hand, cold, sweaty fingers meeting fire hot flesh. Hearing the voice that responded, he closed his eyes and tried to manage a smile, "hey, buddy." A long pause followed, and Rowen felt his heart lurch. "You, too, huh?"

Weary eyes flitted over to the gleaming red clock face beside the phone. "You sure? Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. See you soon."

He quietly placed the handset back into place on the base, then raked the fingers of both hands into his hair. The blue locks twisted through his fingers, tendrils soaked through with sweat.

* * *

Rowen had only barely caught the last train, stepping aboard just after midnight. He caught the brief glances being cast his way from passengers in his peripheral vision, but chose to ignore them even as they caused an uneasy fluttering in his stomach. Every nerve in his body seemed to be standing at attention, and goosebumps periodically crawled over his arms without provocation.

The train doors had hardly opened before the Ronin's foot was stretching out to the platform. There was an urgency in his step, though he was unsure why; it seemed he could still feel strangers' eyes on him, trailing behind him as he exited the train, and the eeriness remained long after the doors had closed and the train continued on. He took a long, quivering breath of the night air, stuffing his hands in his sweater pockets before setting off into the brightly-lit streets of Tokyo.

Rowen was no stranger to high-rise apartments, dividing his time between his own and his father's in Osaka, but there was something awe-inspiring about the high-rises of central Tokyo, peppered seamlessly among the city's endless stores and office buildings. He lingered for a moment outside the familiar, sleek façade of glass and metal, gazing up at its silhouette against the night sky. Finally, he punched the access code into the security panel seated at the entrance, and heard the whirring click as the doors unlocked.

Inside, the apartment building was unnervingly silent. His reprieve from the unsettled chill in his bones ended as goosebumps crawled back over his skin. Footsteps shuffled quickly to the elevator, and his hands hung uneasily at his sides as the door closed and the lift shifted into motion.

Blue eyes anxiously watched each floor number tick by until the elevator crept to a stop. 29. Rowen hurried out of the lift and into the illuminated hall. He managed a small sigh of relief, the brightly lit corridor bringing some comfort to his quivering stomach. He proceeded down the row of doors at a calmer pace now, and reaching his destination, he knocked gently.

_Click_. _Click_. _Click_. The locks seemed deafening in the quiet hallway. Rowen had little time to concern himself with it, however, as the door drew open. The ill-ease that had so quickly crept back into his nerves dissolved away as his gaze came to rest on the gentle face of Cye Mouri. The man's sea blue eyes sparkled, and a small half-smile perked up on his lips. He took a step back to permit Strata inside.

Rowen stepped just inside the door, quietly pushing it closed behind him, and in a single motion he wordlessly wrapped his arms around his friend. The strong arms of a swimmer hugged back, lingering in the embrace.

"I made tea." Cye's gentle voice pulled Rowen back to reality, and he carefully released him from his grasp. The man managed a weak smile.

"'Course you did," he laughed. He trailed after Torrent as he turned and started a path to the kitchen.

Cye's apartment had always been immaculate. It was a concept entirely alien to Rowen, whose own residence was a mix between science experiment and natural disaster, and the Mouri domain never ceased to awe him. In addition to its pristine condition, it was smartly decorated, its owner well-acquainted with interior design; clean lines and neutrals, with carefully placed swaths of color from florals the man had arranged himself, resulted in a fresh, welcoming space. For a moment, it distracted him from the distress that drew him here in the first place.

Rowen shuffled his feet to catch up to Cye in the kitchen. He lingered uneasily in the doorway as he watched him collecting teacups from the cabinet.

"You're having them, too," he said, breaking the silence. "The nightmares." He saw Cye's shoulders tense, and he paused briefly in his work pouring the tea.

"Every night this week," Cye confirmed softly. Picking up one of the teacups, he offered it to his comrade with trembling hands. He returned to the counter to pick up his own cup, leaning back against the cabinet.

"Sage called me a few nights ago."

"Him, too?"

"All of us," Strata confirmed. "It's been a year." His voice was bleak.

"Is that where it's coming from?" Torrent paused in thought, then quietly nodded to himself in understanding. "We survived everything, saved the world. Why are we still suffering?"

"We're warriors," Rowen offered, though as the words escaped him he seemed less convinced of his own answer than he intended.

"_You're_ warriors." His friend's voice had a bite to it, one that took him by surprise, and looking up he found a muddled mix of sadness and frustration in Cye's face. "I'm not. I never have been, I never wanted to be."

"Cye—"

"I didn't ask for this life."

Rowen's first instinct was exasperation. Torrent's resistance to this duty was not novel; it had been responsible for more than one vicious argument among the Ronins, fights that ended bitterly and never seemed to truly resolve. They had accepted their fates as protectors, something Cye adamantly refused, and his repeated obstinacy wore all of them thin. But now, as Strata stood in his comrade's spotless home, watching his shoulders tremble like the branches of a frail tree in a storm, his frustration subsided. For the first time, it seemed, he saw a gentle soul burdened with something so dark and opposed to his own nature, something he had been forced to accept without any consideration to who he was.

"None of us did," Rowen said quietly. "And it isn't fair. That the rest of the world went back to normal, when we'll never be normal again. That no one else remembers, but we still wake up from nightmares, that sometimes we can't even tell the difference between the nightmares and reality." He stepped closer to Cye, carefully taking his cup of tea from his hands and placing both vessels on the counter behind him. Strong hands grasped Torrent's arms, and a half-hearted smile came across Strata's lips. "But at least we're all in it together."

Cye was silent. His gaze lingered on Rowen's for a long moment, unwavering. There was the smallest movement, a slight quiver in his lips, and then Strata saw the sparkle of tears as they welled in his comrade's bright sea green eyes.

He opened his arms and drew the man close, his embrace tightly returned.


	3. Guardian

A/N: Taking a brief trip backward for this one. This short was originally going to be included in _Oblivion_ itself, somewhere between Alliance (Chapter 34) and Debt (Chapter 35). I cut it for sake of moving the story along and fear of boring readers, but I always enjoyed what was presented here. So consider this a "deleted scene" from _Oblivion_.

Trivia: Dais is reading a 16th century play called The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus, from Iris's library.

* * *

_April 1988_

* * *

The inky black ocean of the night sky enveloped the horizon, its shadow illuminated only barely by the slightest sliver of a cold, silver moon and the soft haze of city lights lingering along the skyline. The air was stagnant, lacking breeze or flow as if nature itself waited with bated breath.

Darkness was usually a welcome presence. Serene, silent. But it came now with an uneasiness, an eerie feeling, and somehow not even the silence was inviting.

Dais found himself gazing into the nothingness of a blank book page. He was unsure how long he had been staring into the void in this manner, though he knew immediately that anything he had attempted to read before that moment had been lost in the cacophony of his mind. He shifted his eye again to the text on the page. It seemed almost a foreign language, and he struggled clumsily through a single sentence before cursing internally and slamming the book shut.

The sound echoed in the stillness. Listening carefully to his surroundings, Dais found only that unsettling silence, suffocating and strange in a house that had been so boisterous days earlier. He pushed up from the desk and meandered to the doorway, leaning out to peer into the blackness of the hall.

The front door should have been open into the night, into the graveyard where its keeper stood vigilant guard. But the ward of this place was no longer keeping watch over it; instead, watch was being kept over her. A sinking feeling struck the Warlord in his chest and curled itself firmly around each rib, momentarily arresting him.

His master had ordered his death. He survived only because the bearer of the Oblivion armor had taken the fatal strike for him. And now, as Iris lay silent in her bedroom, she seemed to be succumbing to the blow. Dais had caught glimpses of the woman through the doorway over the days prior, recognizing in her skin the ashen undertones of a dying body. The terrifying rattle when she breathed. Death was an old familiar; he had seen enough of it to know when it loomed.

After a moment of thought, the Warlord turned back into his makeshift bedroom and took his book from the desk, tucking it under his arm as he stepped into the darkened hall. He quietly slinked toward the caretaker's room, noting the lack of lantern light in the quarters reserved for the Ronins. Spidery fingers were careful as they slid open the _fusuma_ to the master bedchamber.

A tinge of shock quivered through Dais as his eye scanned the room; Anubis, who had not left Iris's side since the attack, was absent. Perhaps he had finally been coerced into showering, or had taken up the guard of the cemetery. Whatever the reason, only the woman remained, unmoved and unresponsive.

The Warlord of Illusion glanced down to see one of the many lanterns of the abode, waiting by the doorway. Plucking it from the floor, he cautiously turned the key, ensuring the flame was kept low and casting only a gentle golden arc in his immediate surroundings. He closed the distance between Iris and himself, quietly approaching her side.

Kneeling to one knee, he examined the woman with a keen eye. Her face seemed hollow, a shadow of its former self, and rosy lips were now a pale shade of bluish grey.

In the panicked frenzy to save the caretaker's life, her immaculately pinned hair had been thrown into a haphazard knot. Days of cold, clammy sweat resulted in matted tendrils, and the twisted loop frayed into unruly curls. Dais frowned. It was no condition for someone of her caliber to be left in. He placed the lantern on the floor and settled down into a seated position beside her.

The soft scraping of the front door as it slid open was startling in the stillness. Kento cringed at the sound, at first intending to draw it open entirely but stopping short at only a few feet ajar.

"Wake the dead, why don't you," Cye murmured, his voice low.

"Don't joke about that, man," Kento hissed.

"What, are you afraid you actually might?"

"Just _no dead jokes_, okay?" Hardrock straightened up and took in a deep breath to pull his chest and stomach in, shimmying through the cracked doorway. Torrent followed suit, his slender figure slipping through with far less effort, and he quietly drew the door shut behind him. He nearly tumbled over his friend as he stepped forward, finding the man halted in his steps.

"What gives?" Cye looked down to see Kento's furrowed brows. He followed his concerned gaze ahead and down the hall to a faint glow lingering in the master bedroom. "I'm sure it's just Anubis, he hasn't slept in days."

"No," Kento murmured, "he's out in the cemetery. I saw him on the trail." His footsteps were soft, and he ignored Cye's quiet protests behind him, swiftly moving through the house and approaching the bedroom door.

Peering in, his mind screeched to a halt. Dais sat on his knees at the caretaker's side, a fistful of her long hair grasped in one hand. Hardrock made move to burst into the room, an action predicted by his comrade as he grabbed the man's shoulder and tugged him back.

"What're you—" Kento's words were stifled as Cye clasped a hand over his mouth.

"I think you should leave him alone, Kento," Torrent murmured.

"_Aryufkinkddng_," came his garbled, furious reply.

"_No_, I'm not." The gentle Ronin nudged him and nodded ahead.

Kento swatted Cye's hand away from his mouth and turned his attention back into the room. The Warlord of Illusion remained quietly seated with the caretaker, and a closer look revealed a small wooden comb in his hand. He had removed the woman's hair from its ribbons and laid it out in sections, and his hands were surprisingly gentle as they worked their way through each lengthy lock, patiently combing out the knots entangling the dark strands before moving on to the next.

Kento glanced up to the knowing look on Cye's face and rolled his eyes before looking back.

Completing his task of detangling Iris's mane, Dais curled his fingers around it to gather it into his hands. He made swift work of separating the locks into three bolts before taking on the daunting task of braiding down their length.

Cye tugged Kento back away from the doorframe. "Satisfied? Let's go to bed."

Hardrock lingered a moment longer, watching the Warlord as he tied Iris's braid off with one of her hair ribbons and tenderly coiled it up around the crown of her head. His expression softened ever slightly. "Yeah," he murmured, "alright." Quietly, he shuffled away from the door and followed Torrent into their shared quarters.

Dais looked over the caretaker, still unmoving. Her inhalation had been erratic, and now as she drew a long breath, he heard that horrifying rattle. He took a deep breath and reached down to pick up his book, quietly turning back to his earmarked page.

"Accursed Faustus, where is mercy now?" The Warlord's voice was quiet as he read aloud. "I do repent; and yet I do despair: Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast." His words slowed and softened. "What shall I do to shun the snares of death?"

The sentence lingered on the silent night air as Dais's eye shifted again to Iris. _If only._


	4. Plus One

A/N: This chapter sees a significant jump ahead, and would be included in an Oblivion sequel if I were to write one. For now, it stands alone. I have many ideas as to what life for each of our warriors would be like at this point in time, and may elaborate in coming one-shots.

* * *

_February 1997_

_[Post-Oblivion]_

* * *

Two-hundred thirty-three million, five-hundred forty thousand, seven-hundred thirteen.

That was how many minutes of life she had endured up to that moment. It was easily five times that afforded to most humans for their entire lives, and she still had at least another twenty-five million to go.

So why did three minutes feel like an eternity?

There was a gentle rapping outside the door, and Iris turned her head over her shoulder. "Honey, could you get that?" she called into the hallway.

"Of course." Hearing her husband's footsteps descend the hall, she turned her attention back to the clock. Thirty seconds. Time seemed to warp around the clock's face, slowing to an impossible crawl. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest as the seconds ticked by.

The ticking vanished amid a wave of high-pitched humming that suddenly flooded her ears. Her fingers trembled and her breath arrested in her chest.

"Ah, you are early!" Anubis declared cheerfully as he drew the door open, revealing five grinning faces.

"Yeah, no thanks to _this guy_," Kento jabbed at Rowen with his elbow, the blue-haired man swiftly swatting back at him.

"Hey, I don't remember agreeing to come here this early in the first place," Strata quipped, "you all know I'm not a morning person."

There was a smattering of chuckles from the warriors as Anubis waved them inside.

"The boys are here," he called down the hall.

"Okay," Iris responded, "I'll be out in a minute."

Anubis walked to the kitchen as the men settled in, taking the tea kettle from the cabinet and igniting the stove.

"How is the wedding planning going?" he called into the living area cheerfully. All eyes shifted to Cye, with Kento pursing his lips to stifle his chuckle.

"You know how it is," Torrent sighed a bit, "Sophie and my sister are having a field day. Venues, photographers, caterers. It's utter chaos." He took a seat at the table. "My job is to just stay out of the way."

"Sounds like it will be quite the celebration," Anubis mused, exiting the kitchen with a tea tray. He circled around the table distributing tea cups.

"Believe me, I would much rather have a wedding like yours," Cye asserted. "Something small, simple. None of this nonsense."

"You have many friends and family who wish to attend." The Warlord smiled sympathetically as he took his seat. "It is a good thing." Torrent conceded to the statement, nodding a bit.

"I suppose you're right."

"Besides, something's bound to come up that you're interested in," Kento said. "Have you talked to the florist yet?" Seeing the sparkle that flashed in his friend's eyes brought a smirk to his face.

"And how is Mia?" Anubis systematically poured his guests' cups full.

"Great," Ryo replied. "Oxford seems to be treating her well. She said she'd get to come back during the summer, but she's said that the last three summers, so I wouldn't count on it."

"Mmm," the Warlord nodded knowingly.

Iris quietly emerged from the hall, saying nothing as she lingered just inside the doorway.

"Ah, there you are," Anubis said lightly, smiling. "I made tea." But as he spoke, their company seemed to notice something he did not: the strange, uneasy stance she had taken. She tried to offer a small, welcoming smile to the warriors, but failed.

"Anubis." Her voice had a distinct tone of urgency. It was enough to bring his brows to furrow and he straightened up. "Can I talk to you?"

He watched her eyes flit nervously to the Ronins, and knew immediately she was requesting his undivided attention. He quickly got to his feet.

"Yes, of course," he agreed. Looking back to his comrades, they nodded in understanding, and he stepped over his seat to join her as she ducked into the kitchen doorway and turned her back against the wall. He placed a hand gently on her waist, catching the slightest tremor that only deepened his concern. "You are shaking. What is it?"

Large brown eyes gazed back into his, and the streak of fear in their depths was unmistakable. Her lips gaped as if to speak, but not even breath escaped her as it arrested in her chest. Anubis looked down to find her hands knotted and wrung together, and he took them gently into his free palm. Finally, she breathed.

"I'm late."

Two words, then silence. At first, the Warlord was confused; _late for what_? But just as he prepared to ask exactly that, the question halted on his tongue. _Late_. He knew this phrase. All at once, his heart slammed against his ribcage and plummeted to the abyss of his stomach.

"You are with child." Anubis's voice was soft, its tone indiscernible. His eyes searched her face for confirmation; finding nothing, his hands numbly wound their way around her waist and drew her body against his. "Iris, tell me."

"I don't know yet," she managed weakly. "I'm going to see the doctor on Thursday." She looked up to him, her eyes tinged with guilt. "I didn't mean to ruin the day, I just—I couldn't—"

"No," the Warlord offered, though there was a dryness to his voice now that caused her stomach to sink. "I am glad you did not keep this from me."

"I think I'm going to go lay down for a little while," Iris murmured.

"Of course." He reached up to gently brush her cheek with his thumb. "Should I take you to the bedroom?"

"No, I'll be okay." She withdrew from her husband's grasp, offering a half-hearted smile before turning out of the kitchen. Hiding the quiver in her voice as much as she could muster, she addressed the warriors still seated patiently at the dining table, "I'm not feeling so hot today, guys. I hope you don't mind if I sit this visit out."

"Not at all," Sage replied. She flashed all of them a small, weak smile, then turned away to leave the room.

Anubis lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching her as she descended the hall alone. Several silent moments passed before he noticed the collection of concerned eyes that had moved to him. There was a faint, dull hum in his ears that threatened to drown out the warriors' inquiries.

"You gonna tell us what's wrong with Iris?" Kento asked, his voice low and steady.

"Is she sick?" Ryo pressed, his brows furrowed.

"No, she's not sick," Anubis replied. He barely noticed his own feet as they started to move, taking him to his seat at the table. He sank slowly back in place, an uneasy hush settling on his company as they awaited an explanation. "I may be a father," he said finally.

"_Wait_, you mean she's—" Kento started.

"You mean you two might be—" Rowen interjected.

"That's _great_!" Ryo said cheerfully. When silence responded, he continued, uncertainly, "right?"

It was brief, but all of them saw it: the stone-cold, speechless expression that flitted over the man's face as he sat with both palms planted firmly on his knees.

"… _oh_." It was the only response Wildfire could muster.

Iris crept into the bathroom, quietly plucking the small white plastic stick from the sink where she had left it. Glancing at the tiny, simple screen, she saw the two pink lines that formed a distinct cross.

Pursing her lips together, she dropped the stick into the waste basket.

* * *

Anubis had stayed home, concerned of what his reaction to his wife's diagnosis might be and that it could be inappropriate within the confines of the doctor's office. The Ronins had been kind enough to visit and occupy his mind, and each had their own unique comfort to offer. Rowen was, surprisingly, a master of diversion, successfully distracting the man with a tense chess match that took up a considerable chunk of the morning. Sage's seemingly endless stoicism, while usually infuriating, was strangely soothing now against the chaotic state of the Warlord's mind.

Seated at the table with a cup of tea in hand, Ryo broke the silence as Anubis looked over the chess board, analyzing his defeat. "So how do you feel?" Wildfire's straight-forward question was almost liberating. No sidestepping, no sugarcoating. It was a question Anubis realized he had been avoiding for days, and his lack of an answer jarred his senses.

"I am not sure," he confessed after a long moment of silence. His eyes had not budged from the chess board, but now it seemed he was looking through it into the distance.

"It's okay, you know." There it was. Cye's gentle voice, his masterful compassion. "To be unsure. It's a big deal, being a dad."

_Dad_. The Warlord felt his heart starting to race. Was it excitement? Fear? He truly _was_ unsure.

"Hey now, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Kento jabbed, "we don't know how good this guy's shooting is."

Humor. Kento's consolation tactic. Unable to find it within himself to be offended by the vulgar suggestion, Anubis simply chuckled. Looking up to see Sage's look of utter disapproval only made matters worse, and the Warlord finally had to throw his head back and let out a full-chested laugh.

"Kento's got a point, though, in a way," Sage noted begrudgingly. "Maybe the better question is, how will you feel if she _isn't_ pregnant?"

"Then there is nothing to have feelings about, is there?" Anubis replied.

"You tell me."

The retort was met with serious green eyes. It was another contingency Anubis had not considered. And as he thought about it, the smallest pang shivered through his heart. Disappointment? Perhaps Halo's question _was_ the better one.

He had little chance to ruminate on it or answer the man. A shadow moved across the open doorway, and looking up they found Iris standing in wait. Her face revealed nothing, simply calm and collected, and her fingers were gently clasped in front of her.

"Hey, Iris," Ryo offered, getting to his feet. "We, uh, we were just about to take a walk." He nodded to his comrades, who quickly took the hint and followed suit. As they passed her in the doorway, Kento extended the gentlest hug, something akin to holding a small, fragile animal, before trickling out into the graveyard. The caretaker returned it, watching them silently as they left.

"You told them." There was no question in Iris's voice as her gaze settled on Anubis. He felt immediately ashamed, green eyes darkening as he got to his feet and slowly walked to meet her.

"I am sorry," he confessed, "I—they asked—"

"It's okay," she assured him, shaking her head a bit. "I get it."

Quietly, he approached her and reached his arms out to take her tenderly into them. His eyes locked with hers, and that feeling as his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach sent a nervous wave through him.

"Iris," he said, trying to calm his trembling voice, "are you—?"

Waiting for her answer was agonizing. But finally, he saw the smallest glimmer of tears brim her eyes, and she pursed her lips, nodding ever slightly.

The cold apprehension that had ensnared his bones was overtaken by a sweeping warmth. His heart found its way back to his chest, and for a moment he felt as though it might burst. Watching his wife's eyes flood with tears, however, he struggled against the quivering excitement fluttering in his stomach.

"Why are you crying?"

"We've never talked about this," Iris managed to whimper, two large, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. "I don't even know how you feelabout this."

Reaching up to take her face into his hands, he brushed his thumbs over her cheeks to clear the tears away. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips, then to her wet cheek.

"It makes two of us," he confessed. Seeing the fresh wave of tears that filled her eyes, he frowned. "How do _you_ feel?"

"Scared," came her whimpered reply. He managed a small, relieved laugh, her admission seemingly releasing a massive weight from him. Leaning down, he tenderly kissed her forehead.

"That _also _makes two of us."


End file.
